


Jagged Little Pill

by SunflowerZombieMouse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Language, Gavin Reed and Elijah Kamski are half siblings, Gavin Reed is an insecure mess here, Hank is a good dad when he gets the chance, More tags coming later, RK900 doesn't have a proper name as of chapter one, RK900 is fascinated by everything human, RK900 is referred to as "it" in the beginning by Gavin, Slow To Update, Snark Central™, bullshit police things (i am not a police officer), enemies to friends to possibly lovers, inconsistent characterization, no beta we die like men ― unprepared and useless, red ice, unedited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 02:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16777618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerZombieMouse/pseuds/SunflowerZombieMouse
Summary: Gavin still hates androids. So of course, the universe decides to stick him with one. What joy. Oh, hey, and there's this whole Red Ice outbreak thing that he's supposed to deal with too. Yee-fucking-haw.Still can't do summaries very well. Oh well.





	Jagged Little Pill

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I'm not projecting onto RK900 what are you talking about~~ hello! I forgot what I was going to say!
> 
> . . . uh, have fun reading. Maybe I'll remember it later.  
> Oh, wait, I remember! The fic and chapter titles are both taken from the song You Learn by Alanis Morissette.

“No way.” Detective Gavin Reed is standing in front of Captain Fowler’s desk, his arms crossed and his body language closed, tight. RK900 can’t see his face from where he’s standing, but he imagines it to be stormy to match the snarl in the human’s tone. “I don’t care what kind of results Anderson and that plastic prick of his are getting, I absolutely fucking _refuse_ to be saddled with one.”  
“Frankly, Reed, I could _not_ care less,” Captain Fowler says curtly. He looks tired and unimpressed with the man. “I’m not the one who assigned him to you, and I’m not the one who says if he stays or goes. You’re stuck with him at _least_ for this case, whether you like it or not. I suggest you get used to it.” He looks back down at his desk in a clear dismissal.  
RK900 steps out of the detective’s way, taking a quick scan involuntarily; _Detective Gavin Reed: Born Oct. 7th, 02. 5’9. 176 lbs. Stress levels: 38% and slowly climbing._ The detective sneers derisively at him, shoves at the door with more force than is strictly necessary. RK900 nods at the captain ― futile, as the man’s attention is laser focused on the electronic files he has in his hands ― and steps out, following Detective Reed. Who is currently stomping across the bullpen in a manner that RK900 can only describe as sulking. Angry, vocal, expletive-filled sulking. The other officers avoid him to an extent that is almost comical; going around him in a wide berth, ducking back behind corners and desks to hide from him until he gets to his own desk and sits down with a huff. The only person who doesn’t is a woman named ― Tina Chen. Given that she is grinning widely at him and he is only scowling heavily at her instead of exploding into a million prejudiced little pieces, RK900 assumes they’re friends. He can hear her teasing him from here; her voice carries fast in the room. Well, now he knows Detective Reed is, in fact, capable of making any friends at all. Good to know he isn’t stuck at “prickly asshole” all the time (just the majority of it, so far. Though it seems to be his default, at least here, if the reactions of everyone else are anything to go by). RK900’s eyes slide away to meet Connor’s. The RK800 smiles a little sheepishly at him from his side of Lieutenant Anderson’s desk when he notices. It’s a little odd to see his own face with brown eyes instead of blue-grey.  
_Status: Establishing connection . . ._  
_Status: Connection established._  
_ >> RK900 #31324817-87: I’m beginning to think I was deceived._  
_ >> RK800 #313248317-51: I’m sorry. He’s been treating me far more civilly lately, so I thought he might have gotten over his prejudices enough to partner willingly with you. Clearly I was mistaken._  
_ >> RK900 #31324817-87: Clearly. Have you ever figured out why he feels so strongly?_  
_ >> RK800 #313248317-51: Unfortunately, no. I haven’t had the opportunity to outside of our work places, and we don’t really speak to each other much inside of it. He mentioned being replaced by machines soon after we first met, though; perhaps he feels threatened by us in some way._  
_ >> RK900 #31324817-87: That makes sense. Many humans are, with good reason._  
_ >> RK800 #313248317-51: Do you want to return to―_  
“No,” RK900 says out loud. He’s standing next to their desk now. Lieutenant Anderson jumps with a mutter of “Jesus _fuck―”_ and Connor reaches over to pat his hand. The coffee in the Lieutenant’s hand stays inside its paper cup, though it sways dangerously close to the rim. “I think I’d like to stay.” He looks over at Detective Reed, whose body language radiates tense anger. He’s bashing at the keyboard in tight, jerky movements. At this rate he’s going to break it in two minutes and fourteen seconds.  
“Alright then,” Connor says after a moment. “If you’re sure.”  
Lieutenant Anderson narrows his eyes at them. “Do I want to know what you two were just talking about?” RK900 ignores him and sets off for Detective Reed’s desk.  
Behind him, he hears Connor telling the Lieutenant about their conversation. The Lieutenant sighs and mutters something about telepathy and sneaky assholes. RK900 suppresses a smile.  
The detective’s shoulders tense further (somehow) when he notices RK900 standing next to him. His hands clench over the keyboard. Whispers start up as neither of them move in a silent challenge to see who will snap first. He has to admit, after three minutes of this (and no broken keyboard), he’s impressed with Detective Reed’s self control. He would have expected something explosive to happen by this point. Detective Reed’s stress levels have risen to 51% now.  
Finally, he pushes away from the desk, stands, and snaps _“What?”_  
Honestly, RK900 isn’t entirely sure why he’s being so passive aggressive. But something about the detective makes him . . . volatile. Perhaps because he’s been lucky to meet only android-sympathetic humans so far ― the change in attitude is interesting. A challenge. He’s always liked challenges. “Hello,” he says. “You didn’t give me the chance to introduce myself in Captain Fowler’s office; I’m RK900. I was sent to assist you in the recent Red Ice outbreak inve―”  
“I don’t give two fucks what you were sent to do,” Detective Reed hisses, cutting him off. “I don’t need a tin can playing at being a detective ― just stay out of my way, and we won’t have any problems. Got it?”  
RK0900 raises an eyebrow. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to stick my nose into your business, considering it’s now officially my business as well. Staying out of your way is not up for debate. I can, of course, keep my findings to myself, but that would be detrimental to the investigation.”  
Behind them, Lieutenant Anderson lets out a long suffering “Oh my god.” RK900 can imagine him putting his head in his hands and Connor giving him a sympathetic glance. He has to suppress another smile. It wouldn’t do to piss of anyone aside from Reed that much.  
Reed himself looks _very_ pissed, and RK900 mentally congratulates himself for predicting the outcome of his words accurately. He does so enjoy being accurate. He’s a little concerned about this new enjoyment of watching the human in front of him fume wordlessly, though. That’s ― new. Something to look into later, he supposes. To see if it’s only Reed or people who don’t like androids in general.  
The detective opens his mouth to respond, but a call interrupts him. He fishes it out of his pocket, giving RK900 a dirty look as he does. “Reed,” he says into the phone, clear and clipped and professional but for the grinding of his teeth. It’s a flip phone, RK900 notices ― hmm. His eyes get smaller and smaller as he listens until they’re only two angry slits. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be right there. Got it.” He ends the call, flips the phone shut, and stuffs it back in his pocket. “Come on,” he mutters sullenly. His stress levels have jumped by sixteen percent.  
RK900 raises an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t want me in your way?” His LED cycles yellow. The call is obviously about a case, or Detective Reed’s mood wouldn’t have plummeted even further like that. He wonders if the situation has escalated from simple drug dealing to something more drastic.  
“You’re obviously not leaving, dipshit,” Reed says, shooting him a glare and grabbing his coat. “So just shut up and follow my lead.”

* * *

It isn’t even noon yet, and already the day has been shaping up to be one shitty fucker.  
First he wakes up to the news that his mom is visiting for the week ― “Isn’t that amazing sweetie? I got the first class tickets, I’m so excited!” ― then he discovers he’s out of both cigarettes and coffee ― thanks, executive dysfunction, so _fucking_ much ― and now he’s been _partnered_ with a tin man detective. _“Partnered”,_ Fowler said. Yeah, right, like he actually bought that for a second. _Replaced_ was more like it. It hadn’t been said out loud back in that office, but―  
_I knew it was only a matter of time,_ that insistent little voice in the back of his head mumbles resentfully. He hates that voice. It reminds him of a far worse time. _Mom didn’t want you._ Shut up, he tells it. _Eli didn’t want you._ Shut up. _They just wanted their shiny toys._ Shut up, dammit. _Of course it wouldn’t be any different here._  
“God, I want a smoke,” he mutters under his breath. The android sitting in the passenger’s seat glances at him, but doesn’t comment. Ugh ― Gavin hopes it doesn’t have super hearing. It probably does, it’s Connor’s . . . relative, almost. Connor has always been eerily perceptive around him. Dammit. “What?” He snaps at the next red light, when they’ve both been silent for five minutes longer than he can stand. He should’ve turned the radio on or plugged in his phone, to avoid that stupid awkward silence he just _couldn’t_ stand. The android blinks, raises an eyebrow at him. Damn smug plastic fucking prick.  
“Nothing,” it says smoothly, going back to staring out the front window. Gavin snorts ― he doesn’t believe it for a second. “Only―” _There it is,_ Gavin thinks sourly, and braces himself for the “smoking-is-bad-for-your-health-you-should-quit” talk. “I have a pack of cigarettes here with me. No lighter, but I’ve been meaning to try them. They’re safe for android consumption as well as human.”  
Gavin jerks the car into a parking lot, idles the engine, and turns to squint at the android. It blinks back at him innocently. “Are you shitting me?” Gavin asks eventually. “You’re shitting me, aren’t you.” It smiles at him, tilts its head. Perfected little mannerisms that on a human would look _too_ perfect. On the android it just looks really fucking creepy. Damn Eli and his penchant for perfectionism in all his projects (Gavin knows it’s unlikely that Elijah worked on this specific android but the man was responsible for all the rest of the androids so it’s fucking close enough in Gavin’s book).  
“No, Detective,” it says calmly. “I’ve been wondering about what sort of effect nicotine would have on my system and biocomponents lately, so I purchased some that wouldn’t cause damage. I assume I can’t get addicted or a nicotine high, but―”  
“No,” Gavin interrupts. He hesitates, trying to figure out the catch. What’s the robot’s angle? Its ulterior motive? There’s no way it doesn’t have one. There just isn’t, especially for an android like that. “Are you seriously offering me an olive branch?”  
The smile widens, becomes more genuine. “I’m offering you a smoke, Detective. Nothing more, nothing less.”  
Gavin knows that’s bullshit, but he can’t figure out a good enough reason to say no to a smoke and a temporary truce. He raps his fingers against the steering wheel, narrows his eyes at the fence post in front of them. “Fine.” The android’s teeth show in a satisfied grin. Gavin’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, hard enough that his knuckles go white with pressure. “I still hate you,” Gavin mutters, pulling the car out of the lot and back into traffic. “You should know that.”  
“So I’ve noticed.” Its tone is dry. It has a fucking sense of humor. _Dammit, Eli, I hate you. Fuck you and your deviant army._ “Why is that, Detective?”  
Gavin doesn’t answer, just focuses on the road. After a few minutes, the android stops looking at him for one. The grin is gone, too ― back to that neutral resting bitch face it was programmed with, he guesses. Gavin turns the radio on. It’s that christmas music they always insist on playing on _on the first of november_ but it’s better than sitting there with nothing to do but twiddle his figurative thumbs and try not to look at the android.  
Who looks at the speakers like they’re personally offending it. Its lip curls, its eyes narrow, and its nose scrunches up like it’s just smelled something nasty. “I don’t understand that,” it mutters. “Humans’ insistence on playing those songs when Halloween was _yesterday.”_ It pauses, clearly expecting a reaction. Gavin doesn’t give it one; he has no idea what sort of reaction it’s looking for and he doesn’t care. It deflates, mutters something under its breath, and turns to look out its window. They stay like that until they reach the crime scene, and Gavin’s mood sours even further.  
That call was just the icing on the cake ― _Hey, you know that red ice case you’ve been assigned to that everyone thinks should have gone to Hank? Well, guess what? People are dying now! I don’t know why they put you on it instead of Hank, Hank would have solved it before lives were lost._  
That hadn’t been what was said, but it sure felt like it. Gavin had been trying to find the location of a drug ring and bust it for a few weeks, but he hadn’t expected there to be a body count (actually, he didn’t think anyone did, really). Supposedly someone called Morpheus was dealing red ice to homeless and jobless people. He’d been described as short, with dark hair slicked into a ponytail. And he wore makeup. Lots of makeup, all of it black. You’d think, with a description like that you’d be hard-pressed to miss him, but you’d be wrong. Gavin has had no luck so far. Which leads them to here; staring at the body of a teenage boy who’d been shot in the forehead and a girl who was presumably his sister that had gotten shot in the chest. There had been no witnesses except for a little old man who heard the gunshots.  
The android is busy walking around, looking all over the house and its LED circling yellow, yellow, yellow . . . . It’s kind of driving Gavin up the wall. “Hey,” he snaps, a little harsher than he means to. Too late now, his mouth is still moving. “You gonna actually help or just stand there like a lump?”  
It turns and gives him such an unimpressed look that he almost takes it back. He glares instead. “I am helping,” it says. “Didn’t you ever see Connor at an investigation? You must have at some point.”  
Gavin suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Even if it didn’t happen all that often, there were still times when he was at a crime scene the same time as Connor and Hank, so he can’t say the android is totally wrong. Still. “No, I haven’t,” he says. “Don’t make a point of hanging around tin cans and boozers if I can help it.” It rolls ― _it rolls its eyes at him._ What the fuck? Where the fuck did it learn that from? And how did it get off doing that when he didn’t get to?  
“I’m an investigative android,” it says. “I’m designed to notice things, especially on the field. I don’t just ‘stand there like a lump’ ― I analyze objects, buildings, and evidence in real time. I’m taking in as much information as I can just by looking.”  
Grudgingly, Gavin has to admit that’s pretty cool ― and useful. At least in his head. “Alright, fine,” he mutters. “Whatever. Lemme know when you find something in here, I’m going to look around outside.”  
“‘Course.”  
Gavin shakes his head as he walks outside, mutters nonsense to himself. _That was a stupid move, letting the android do all the investigating inside. Now it’s gonna take all the credit._ God, Gavin hates that insecure little voice. It’s given him more trouble than it’s worth, but he doesn’t know how to get rid of it. _Therapy,_ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Tina says helpfully. Fuck that. He’s not letting some strange shrink poke around in his brain.  
“Hey, Chris,” Gavin says as he spots the officer. “Any luck with figuring out where the perp might’ve gone?”  
Chris shakes his head, rubs at his forehead with a pen. “Nah. Whole bunch of people were still at work or dropping kids off at school; nobody saw anyone leaving, no one ‘cept that man was around to hear or see anything while it was happening . . . looks like a dead end. Sorry, man.”  
“Yeah, whatever.” Gavin sighs and sticks his hands in his pockets. “I’ll go poke around, see if I can find shoe prints or something.” He pivots on his heel and marches off for the back of the building. There isn’t much back there; just a trash can and a recycling bin, some stray pieces of garbage, and a bunch of bushes. He doesn’t see anything like footprints in the soft dirt, so it’s unlikely anyone ran out this way. There are car ports, too, but Gavin doesn’t think anyone would go over fences just to avoid the alleyway. Unless they were extra sons of bitches. He looks around again; the only prints he can see are his own. He sighs and turns.  
_Now the tin can is definitely going to nab the credit. Nice work, dumbass._  
“Goddammit, shut up,” Gavin mutters. Thankfully no one is around to give him odd looks. He gets enough of those as it is.  
He heads back inside to see what the android is up to; it has to have made more progress than he did, even if that is a blow to his ego. Inside, it’s kneeling beside the girl, a hand on her shoulder and the other―  
“What the fuck are you doing?” Gavin blurts.  
It looks up at him and takes its fingers ― _its fingers_ ― out of its mouth. “Analyzing the blood,” it says, like it didn’t just stick _human blood_ into its mouth, like this is an everyday occurrence. “The victims are siblings; Angela and David Wilson, fourteen and seventeen, respectively. She was sick; a common cold. Given the way his legs are, I imagine he couldn’t run away so she lunged in front of him in an effort to protect him. I found crutches over there that support this theory.”  
Gavin gapes. Then he snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head, telling himself he can freak out about the _putting HUMAN BLOOD IN ITS MOUTH_ thing later. When there isn’t a murderer on the loose. “alright,” he says, and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Anything else, then?”  
It blinks. Its LED is cycling bright yellow again. It looks . . . sad. Gavin has the fleeting thought of _I should stop calling it ‘it’_ before it stands and brushes its hands on its pant legs. “No,” it says shortly. “Nothing else, yet. Did you have any luck outside?”  
Gavin’s mood sours further. “No,” he says, curt. “There weren’t any tracks when I went out there. It’s just my shoe prints now.”  
It nods. “Wonderful,” it says, and covers its mouth with the back of its hand.  
“What?” Gavin asks, frowning in confusion. He doesn’t smell anything, and even if he did, it would have covered its nose . . . so why its mouth?  
It startles, looks up at him and pulls the hand away. “Ah . . .” It tilts its head and the LED settles on blue. “I was just thinking.”  
“Well, think faster,” Gavin says. “There’s a killer running round, in case you hadn’t noticed.”  
The LED flickers red for a moment and it narrows its eyes at him. “Why, no, I hadn’t,” it says coldly. “Thank you, captain obvious.”  
Gavin clicks his tongue, ~~unnerved,~~ and turns away. “Whatever,” he says again. ~~He’s been saying that a lot lately.~~ “Nothing was taken?”  
“I don’t know,” it says. “I haven’t looked very closely anywhere aside from this room yet, so if anything was, they were careful not to make it look that way. The only obvious signs of a struggle are in here.”  
Gavin sets off for the other rooms and stops in a bedroom. True to the android’s word, nothing looks overturned in haste or ruffled around like someone was looting. Things are _messy,_ sure, but it’s the kind of mess that comes with being badly organized. He sighs again. “Well, fuck,” he says under his breath.  
“I’d have to agree with that,” the android says as it pops up out of _fucking nowhere_ and peers over his shoulder. “‘Well, fuck’ seems like an apt reaction to this.”  
Gavin huffs, proud that he didn’t jump and shriek like he wanted to. “So, see anything?”  
It pauses and looks around, its eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “No,” it says eventually, exhaling. Gavin doesn’t understand that ― aren’t they made of metal? Why would they need to breathe? Maybe to better look human, or something like that. Whatever it is, that the android is “breathing” at all makes him uneasy. “Nothing important. Unless you count the Wilsons’ finger prints―” it breaks off and pushes past him. It kneels next to the bed and pulls out a rusty, bloodstained kitchen knife. Gavin puts a hand over his eyes as it swipes at the blood to put in its mouth _again,_ but doesn’t comment on it. “The blood on the blade doesn’t match either of the children,” it says. “But Angela’s fingerprints are on the handle.” Its eyes are gleaming when Gavin looks up again. “There’s no match for the blood in our records, but now we have a sample of the murderer’s blood.”  
“Which means we can find him,” Gavin says, smiling grimly. _Gotcha, fucker._

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, RK900 does have an ulterior motive and it's Friendship. Also I do the thing with putting the back of my fingers against my mouth when I'm thinking as well.
> 
> Comments are love and criticisms are welcome!


End file.
